


Tuesday's Gone

by 0ntheroadsofar



Series: Growing Up Winchester [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Five Stages of Grief, Gen, Sad Winchesters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-09-25 13:13:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9822080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0ntheroadsofar/pseuds/0ntheroadsofar
Summary: Tuesday's gone, and so is Mary. A look into the remaining Winchester's struggles after the passing of the most important person in their lives.





	1. The Day the Music Died

Wednesday, November 2, 1983.

Mary awoke at exactly 4:02 am to Sam crying. He was 6 months old today, but not quite sleeping through the night. She'd stayed up until midnight, paranoid that something might still happen because that was usually when demon-deals went down. Sam had been cranky anyway but had finally slept a solid four hours until now. He was fighting sleep even harder now and practically inconsolable, his crying loud enough to wake the dead.

That theory was proven as Dean came walking into Sam's bedroom, wiping the sleep from his eyes. "Mom, why won't Sammy stop?" he asked, equally cranky. It was 4:15 by now.

"You know how sometimes you say you aren't tired when you are? That's what Sammy's doing. Come here," she said, sitting down and patting the floor next to her. "Help me sing him to sleep." So they sang _Hey, Jude_ , Sam cradled in her arms and Dean on her lap until Sam finally quieted and fell back to sleep. Dean followed closely behind as he nodded into his mother's chest. Somehow she managed to put Sam back in his crib and Dean in his bed without awakening them. At 4:36, She crawled back into bed next to John, who muttered nonsense in his sleep as he unconsciously grabbed her waist and pulled her closer to him.

A couple hours later she was awoken as John stirred to get ready for work. Half hour and a peck on the cheek later, he left, letting her know that he'd be home late tonight due to an influx of damaged cars caused by the weekend's storm. She managed a couple more minutes of sleep before Dean, sensing that his father had left, sneaked under the covers and cuddled up next to her. That lasted another hour before Sam demanded his mother's attention again, and Dean groaned reluctantly, torn between the warmth and comfort of the bed and the prospect of holding his little brother.

Sam won out, as he always did, and soon the three of them were eating breakfast.

"Guess what today is, sweetie?" Mary asked Dean as she reached over to pour syrup on his waffles.

"Tuesday?" he asked with a tilt of his head, confused as to what the significance of the question was.

"No, silly," Mary laughed, pinching his chin. "It's Wednesday. And it's Sammy's half birthday. He's six months old today."

Dean's face lit up, then fell slightly. "I didn't get him anything." He got out of his chair and onto Mary's lap so he could have better access to Sam, who slapped his hands excitedly against his high chair. "Can we make him cupcakes?" Dean pleaded.

Mary sighed; cooking and baking were by no means her favorite ways to pass the time, but Dean loved helping on the rare occasions that she did. So for him, and for Sam, cupcakes it was. She had more than one reason to celebrate anyway: the yellow-eyed demon no longer a threat, so the impending sugar high and later coma the boys would spend the afternoon in seemed like a cakewalk.

It was barely 10am when an incredibly messy kitchen and two frosting-covered kids showed evidence of the past hour's work put into what Mary thought were some fairly miserable looking cupcakes. Her sons' thought otherwise, as Dean greatly amused his little brother as he smeared frosting and cupcakes bits dramatically over his face.

"Happy birthday, Sammy," he said, climbing onto the table to kiss his giggling brother's forehead, leaving a chocolate lip imprint in his wake.

"Oh, it's definitely bathtime already," assessed Mary, wondering how many they'd need by day's end.

Dean had a massive sugar rush within five minutes of finishing his cupcake and it took nearly 20 minutes for Mary to wrangle him into the bath. Clothing was apparently now optional as he ran stark naked through the halls and up and down the stairs, giggling at his mother's attempts to catch him. _At least it's a step in the right direction_ , she thought, seeing as all she had to worry about now was luring him into the bathroom. Sam thought it was hilarious and refused to stop laughing regardless of how frustrated his mother pretended to sound.

Finally though, the prospect of Dean helping his mom give Sam a bath won out as he calmed down enough to be trusted to sit behind Sam in the tub. His little brother was still a little wobbly when it came to sitting up on his own, so Dean kept a hand close to his back just in case while Sam splashed playfully at the water.

Mary smiled at the closeness of her sons. They were such blessings. Dean was already a more caring and loving soul than she could have ever hoped for. And Sam was still a baby, but his light-heartedness and his little laughs and the way he looked at her with his big hazel (for today; they were constantly changing) eyes convinced Mary that the brothers took more after each other than their own parents. It broke her heart in the sweetest way possible; they'd grow up to be better men than she and John could've ever imagined. She laughed at herself. Every mom said that about their kids.

Of course, Dean had to go and ruin the moment by letting rip a rather loud one, giggling smugly at his accomplishment, then outright laughing as Sam gave a show of solidarity and his mom's face wrinkled in disgust.

"Just wait 'til they're teenagers," her aunt, who had two grown boys of her own, had warned. Boy, was Mary in for it with these two.

* * *

 

The remainder of the day passed relatively as expected: Dean was still too amped up on sugar to go down for a nap, but Sam mercifully did with little effort. After that was mostly playtime and cuddles and laundry. Dean only had one major meltdown (and two minor ones) which Mary considered a win. He'd skipped his nap altogether today, so by an early bedtime at around 8, he was more than willing to cooperate.

Sam was already laying in his crib, not quite asleep yet, but not fussing. She picked Dean up and headed into Sam's room.

Mary watched in the doorway as John read a short excerpt from the "Out of the Frying-Pan, Into the Fire" chapter of _The Hobbit_. Dean was already nodding off, so John cut it short and pushed off the bed as Mary took over, placing his hand on her shoulder as she told their son that angels were watching over him. She only got through the first verse of _Hey, Jude_ before Dean was out like a light.

The time read 8:12pm. The clock in Sam's room stopped.

* * *

 

At 11:26, John was awoken by the terrified scream of his wife. By 11:27, his life had burst into flames before his eyes.

* * *

 

 _This isn't real_ , Dean kept telling himself, his eyes shut tight. It couldn't be real, because if it was...

"Buddy?" a distant voice asked. "Uh, Dean?" He opened his eyes and found himself face-to-face with a police officer. Dean was raised to respect the law, and while the officer was offering a reassuring smile, his uniform and the reason behind why he was there intimidated Dean. "Hey, buddy. Just wanted to ask you a few questions, that okay, bud?"

Dean just stared, his brows furrowed and his lips pressed tightly together.

The officer took the silence as an implied approval. "Just wanted to know if you saw anything that happened tonight? Notice anything funny or unusual?"

Dean breathed out his nose, tucking himself further behind his dad and up against the Impala. The fire that blazed from their house across the street seered across his sheening eyes. He'd heard him and his dad talking. His... the fire had started out of nowhere as it consumed his... But he couldn't even think it, much less say it aloud. That would mean that the nightmare he'd awoken to was in fact very much real. So he kept his mouth shut and gave the officer an almost imperceptible shake of his head.

"Well you let your dad know if you do, okay?" he responded, giving what was supposed to be a comforting touch to his shoulder, but had Dean backing further behind his father.

"We're gonna need you to stay in town," the officer said in a professional voice to his dad as he stood back up. "Just in case we have any more... questions."

Dean chanced a look up to his father, and saw that he too was staring blankly at what used to be their house, but was now a blackening mess of flames and smoke as the firefighters fought to control it. Deep down, Dean knew they'd lost more than just a house. All his toys were probably gone. Sam's too, who was at the moment busy pulling at his dad's shirt and cooing to himself, unaware of the gravity of the situation. Dean's clothing was probably gone too, his favorite stuffed animal, his... No, not that. He could handle losing everything else, but he couldn't handle that.

"You got anywhere to stay tonight?" the officer asked in a gentler tone.

Dean saw his dad snap out of his trance, still disoriented. "I, uh. I don't know." He rubbed his forehead. "Yeah, maybe. Got a friend I might be able to stay with until... I, uh... I need a phone though."

"Let's see if one of your neighbors will let you borrow their's," offered the officer. He looked over his shoulder. "Hey, uh, I know you don't wanna leave your kids, but my partner has two of her own, so she's real good with them, if you wanna let her watch them while we get you and your boys a place to stay."

His dad, who had minutes before vehemently insisted that Dean stay by his side while the officer interviewed him, seemed to consider it. "I, uh... Yeah, that's fine I guess." The officer called over to his partner, a short, pleasant looking woman. "I'll be quick about it," his dad added on.

Dean looked up at his dad in terror. He didn't want to leave him, didn't think he could. He clutched tighter onto his dad's leg in protest.

"Dean..." he said in what would have been a stern voice if it wasn't so laced with sorrow. So Dean relented, unsure of what to do with his arms now. His dad opened the door of the Impala so the lady officer could be more comfortable during her watch, cautiously handing her Sam. Seemingly satisfied that his boys were in good hands, he walked away towards the neighbor's house. Dean stared after him, wrapping his arms around himself, standing stiffly in front of his babysitter.

"What's your favorite color?" she asked as a means of distraction. Red was the answer, but that was the color of the beast that was busy devouring his life. He didn't respond, but looked up at the night sky, watching as the blinking lights of a distant airplane flew overhead. He'd heard his dad say something about his... about being on the ceiling. Maybe she... Had she been flying? It was the only explanation he could think of, but he knew it wasn't normal for people to fly. He shuddered as the blinking lights passed out of sight.

 _This isn't real_ , he told himself again. It couldn't be.

* * *

 

"Oh, sweetie, I'm so sorry," said Kate, scooping him into her arms, but he just leaned into her shoulder.

"Just let us know if you need anything," he heard Mike say to his dad. "Anything at all. I know you don't want to hear this, but you'll get through this."

"Yeah…" his dad responded softly. He turned to Kate. "I, uh. I haven't talked to him yet. Any way you could put Sam down?"

"Of course, John," she said, as she passed Dean over to his father and took Sam in her arms.

His dad carried him over to the couch and set him down, kneeling in front of him. He was going to tell him everything was alright. It was just another one of Dad's not-funny jokes. It wasn't real. She hadn't been flying, because that was only possible in dreams or the nightmare he was currently in.

"Dean…" he heard his dad say. Dean looked up at his face, but not in his eyes. There was something unexplainable in them, and it scared him. "Dean, I need you to look at me," he said, his voice sounding as scared as Dean felt.

So he did. He blinked hard as he fought back tears, preparing himself to hear words he didn't want to hear.

"I know you heard me talking to the cop earlier," he continued slowly. "But I need you to know what it means."

Dean knit his brows together. He didn't want to know what it meant.

"Something... bad happened to your mother. Something I can't even... I don't want to believe... But I have to. And I..." He paused as he turned his head away to fight back tears. "Dean... Mommy's... God, I can't do this, Dean, I can't."

Dean heaved silently as a tear fell down his father's cheek.

His dad placed his hand on Dean's cheek. "I need you to be strong for me, Dean." He shook his head. "Because I can't."

So Dean shoved back the fear and the other unfamiliar feelings threatening to consume him. His dad needed him to.

"Dean..." he managed to continue, strengthened by his son. "Dean, Mommy's gone. She... she's not coming back." He sighed heavily. "Not because she doesn't love you, she loves you and Sam so much... God, Dean, I don't even know if you'll understand this." He looked up at his son, who looked back at him with unreal calmness, trying to hide the horror that lay beneath it. "Dean, Mommy's dead."

No. No she wasn't. Because none of this was real, and the concept of death made no sense. Nobody could be gone _forever_. This was a dream... a nightmare. His dad had never cried before, and people couldn't fly, so he would wake up in the morning to his mom rubbing his back, and then they'd spend the day cleaning the house and playing with Sammy. His Dad would come home from work and Dean would leap into his arms like he always did and this nightmare would soon be a distant memory. So he hugged his not-real dad, who sobbed silently in his arms. And still Dean said nothing, because what was the point of further validating something that was torturing him while he slept? Eventually he was carried to his not-real room, because this wasn't his house, he didn't sleep in a spare bedroom and his dad didn't sleep on a couch. He'd wake up in the morning and it'd all be over.

So why couldn't he fall asleep?

 


	2. Who Feels It, Knows It, Lord

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title from Running Away by Bob Marley and the Wailers

Dean awoke to darkness.

Sometime between trying to understand what had happened and willing himself to believe it wasn't real, he'd fallen asleep. And now, he thought he might be awake, but he couldn't be sure. He wasn't in his own bed, however, so he must still be in the nightmare. But the reason he'd awoken made itself known as the sound of Sam crying reached him from another room. He heard the soft voice of a woman comforting him and he sprang out of bed.

It was his mom. It had to be. Who else would awake in the middle of the night to quiet his brother?

He padded quietly down the hallways, following Sam's cries until he stood before the partially closed door. He pressed his hand against it, meaning to open it to find his brother cradled in his mother's arms. But he didn't. He knew she wouldn't be behind the door. He knew it'd be Jay's mom, not his. But if he never went in, he could still pretend it was her. Pretend he could hear her singing to him. Pretend that he was cuddled in her lap, laying against her and wiggling Sam's toes as they both drifted back to sleep in her arms.

Sam would not calm. He wanted his mother, not a substitute. Dean's heart was torn between going in and holding Sam until he fell asleep and waiting outside until his not-mom left and he could go in and pretend his mom had gone back to bed. He stared at the door, unmoving while Sam wept.

He jumped as he felt something brush against his arm. It was Jay, holding her favorite blanket and stuffed lamb. He longed for his own. "You can sweep in my room if you wan'," she offered. "Can't hear him cwying from there."

Dean shook his head. She shrugged and walked off back to bed. She didn't have a brother; she didn't understand. He couldn't just leave Sam, not when his father was refusing to wake, and his mother was...

He backed into the shadows as Sam began to fuss less and less. He crawled into the linen closet until he heard footsteps leaving the room where Sam was. Slowly, he got out, trying not to make any noise as he pushed the door open and walked silently over to the crib.

The people of the community had quickly gathered together to get the Winchester's the essentials they'd need to get through the next few weeks: diapers, a crib, and other things for Sam, and a few toys and blankets for Dean. But they weren't his things. His things were gone. He wanted to break down, but he couldn't. He couldn't feel anything, but at the same time he felt everything. He bit down on his lower lip as he stared into the crib. Sam seemed to sense a familial presence rather than the substitute who had been holding him as he whimpered and reached his tiny hand towards his brother.

 _I'm here, Sammy_ , Dean wanted to say. But he couldn't. Speaking meant hearing his own voice. It made it more real. And this couldn't be real. So he climbed over the bars separating him from his brother. Even in the dark, Dean could see the sheen of tears on Sam's face. Real tears, not the fake ones he used to get attention from their m-... to get attention. Dean cupped his brother's round cheeks in his hands, brushing away the tears as Sam sniffled.

 _I'm sorry, Sammy_ , he thought as he laid down and cuddled Sam in his arms.

He tried to stay laying on his side so he could be wrapped around Sam. But he couldn't. In that position, he had a view of the ceiling. And he couldn't be sure whether he was imagining things based on what his father had said or if he had actually seen it with his own eyes, but every time he looked up he saw her: a figure crying out and burning up before him. He hastily wiped away the tears threatening to make an appearance, not wanting to upset Sam. He positioned himself on his stomach, head propped up on one crooked arm, his nose digging into the mattress, and his other arm draped across Sam. He managed to fall asleep again, because it was either that or face the awful reality surrounding him.

* * *

 

A couple hours later, Dean made a hasty retreat under the crib when Sam resumed crying once more. A pang of guilt struck him as Sam gave a desparate cry at the loss of Dean next to him.

A few minutes past and still no one came. He was about to crawl back into the crib, unable to bear the separation, when a tall figure pushed open the door.

His Dad.

Dean wasn't entirely sure if he wanted to come out from under the crib for him or not. Recalling the conversation they'd had before bed, he decided against it.

"Shhh, Sammy, it's okay," he heard his father say in a cracked, tired voice. "Daddy's got you. I won't let anything hurt you, I promise."

Dean couldn't help but wonder why his father hadn't kept the same promise to her.

Sam's screaming continued. His father paced back and forth, bouncing the baby in his arms, before heading out the door and walking down the hallway.

Dean let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. But moments later, he heard his dad yell out, "Dean!" in desparation.

Dean leapt out from under the crib, his heart pounding, dreading whatever new evil awaited him. But Sam was there, so he couldn't allow fear to overtake him.

"Dean, where are you!" his dad called out again.

They met in the hallway outside the room Dean had been sleeping in. "Dean, there you are!" his father exclaimed, relief replacing the panic in his face. He knelt so he could scoop his son close to him, holding on for dear life. "Don't do that, son. You scared me!" Sam was still screaming.

 _I'm sorry, Daddy_ , he wanted to say, his heart pounding out of his chest, but he wrapped an arm around his dad's neck and Sam's back instead, gently rubbing their backs in an effort to calm them both down.

"Everything alright?" said Mike's gruff voice from behind. Dean didn't turn to look at him, instead burying his face into his father's neck.

"Everything's fine," his dad assured. Nothing more was said, so Dean assumed Mike gave the same shrug Jay had given him and gone back to bed.

His dad brought him an arm's length away so he could look him in the eye. "Don't ever do that again, Dean," his voice was harsh but his eyes were pained. "I can't lose you, too." He brought Dean in close again. "Oh, God, don't let me lose you," he whimpered as he began to weep, shaking quietly into his son's shoulder.

But still Dean didn't cry. He couldn't feel. Sure, he felt the wetness soak his shirt from his father's tears, felt Sam grasp his arm as he cried and cried. But he felt nothing inside. It was easier this way. If he let himself feel he was sure he would break.

Eventually, his dad gained some semblance of control, standing back up with both boys in his arms. "Do you want to sleep with Sam tonight?" he whispered in Dean's ear. He nodded into his shoulder, thankful that he wouldn't have to feign sleep again and sneak back back in.

* * *

 

When Dean awoke after a fitful sleep - Sam's crying and whimpering could not be calmed, no matter how hard Dean tried - it was to his dad's gentle touch on his back. His dad let him know he had to go out for a bit to figure things out, find what had killed her. Dean froze, unable to react.

_Killed?_

He didn't move from his position on his stomach until Kate came to tend to his still fussy brother.

"Come get some breakfast," she said softly, and while he really didn't want to, his stomach insisted.

Jay was waiting for them at the table, already starting her own breakfast.

"Unca John sad," she announced. Dean's lip quivered. She continued, unaware of the effect of her words. "Where's Aun' Mare?"

Dean's eyes widened and he heard Kate gasp and begin to offer some well-meaning explanation, but Dean was gone. He ran into the bathroom and slammed the door behind him, locking it before he backed away quickly as if it would hurt him if he stayed too close.

But he was wondering the same thing himself. Where was she? Yes, she was dead, but she would be back. She had to be. Someone was pounding on the door, asking to be let in, but he didn't hear. He was busy building something in his mind. He went back to when she'd left for the weekend. He'd missed her, but she'd came back. She would always come back. She loved him, and he said he'd never leave her. She would come back. The angels were watching over him, so they had to be watching over her, too.

Gradually, he calmed himself down enough to face Jay and her mom again. No matter what they said, she was coming back. He just had to be patient.

He opened the door to find a teary-eyed Jay before him. "M'sorry," she muttered, clearly distraught that she'd upset him.

 _It's okay_ , he thought as he pulled her into a hug.

"Wanna draw with me?" she offered minutes later, tears dried, and back to her usual cheerful self.

Dean faked a smile and nodded. It was a distraction, at least.

Kate set them up with some paper and crayons, Sam finally tiring himself out enough to sleep soundly. Jay hummed happily to herself as she drew pictures of what she'd insist was the puppy she was trying to convince her parents to get her, but really looked like nothing more than brown scribbles.

Dean worked in silence. This was helping. He didn't think he'd feel like talking anytime soon, but drawing was okay. He'd drawn with her a million times. This was familiar. He worked diligently on one picture while Jay drew 10 scribbles until he heard a knock on the door and Kate opened it to reveal his father.

"I need to talk to him," he heard him say to Kate, who quickly ushered her daughter out of the room. Dean flipped the drawing over, unsure if his dad would be okay with what he'd drawn.

His dad squatted down next to him. "Hey, kiddo." He was smiling, but Dean knew it was fake. "What'd you do today?"

Dean glanced at the paper and crayon covered table, picking up his drawing and holding the picture away from his dad, pressed into his own chest.

"Still not talking, huh?" His dad bit his lower lip. He always did that when he was about to deliver bad news. He shifted his legs so he was kneeling on one, bringing Dean in closer to rest against the other, who was still clutching his drawing close. "I'm sorry if I scared you this morning," he said, tucking a strand of hair behind Dean's ear.

_Killed._

"But you need to understand," he continued. Dean's glance briefly left the floor and met his father's. "There's something out there. I don't know what it is. But I won't let it kill you, too. I swear I won't let it hurt you or Sammy." His voice was rough, barely containing the emotions behind it. "We'll kill the thing that killed her, Dean. I swear to you, I'll do anything to find it." He was angry now, his lips quivered with it. Dean shivered involuntarily.

Dean's eyes darted back and forth across his dad's face, trying to understand what he was saying without having to admit the truths behind them. He found no answers.

His dad's face softened. "It's okay, Dean. Don't be scared." He grasped a reassuring hand on his son's shoulder.

But what his dad didn't understand was that it wasn't some monster that scared him. It wasn't fear of getting hurt. It was fear of losing her. He looked down at the drawing in his arms again, trying to grasp at what he used to know.

"Can I see your drawing?" his dad asked, seeming more calm now. Dean hesitantly placed the paper in his father's outstretched hand, his teeth grazing over his lower lip in nervousness.

The softened look his father usually had before praising Dean's work soon shifted rapidly from what looked to Dean like surprise, sorrow, anger, then hurt.

"Dean..." he whispered, broken. "You can't... I'm sorry, I can't..." His breathing became labored as grief overtook him. He looked Dean in the eyes, brimming with tears. "Don't. Please don't say you saw." He rubbed his hand down his face. "Don't... Don't draw something like this again." He stood abruptly, dropping the paper on the floor, and walked out the room.

Dean shrank into himself, staring down at his drawing. He'd been happy. She was there. But it was wrong.

The levee finally broke as tears rolled down his cheeks. He grabbed the paper and ripped it down the middle. In his hands was a man in a brown jacket, holding a baby in one arm while the other hand held that of a green eyed child.

On the floor lay a figure who'd been drawn a little further away, a little higher up than the others. A woman wearing a white dress, with red and orange and yellow surrounding her.

 


End file.
